
Class 
Book 



^^^1 



GopightN". 



itrzJjS 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



CHALLENGE 



CHALLENGE 

By LOUIS UNTERMEYER 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1914 






«it 



Copyright. 1914, by 

The Century Co. 



Published. April. 1914 



APR 23 1314 

©C1,A369813 



CONTENTS 

I. SUMMONS 

Summons 3 

Prayer 7 

To Arms 9 

On THE Birth OF A Child ]0 

How Much of Godhood 11 

The Great Carousal 12 

Thanks 17 

God's Youth 18 

In the Berkshire Hills 23 

Voices 24 

Revelation 25 

Affirmation 30 

Downhill on a Bicycle 31 

Midnight — By the Open Window . . 33 

The Wine of Night 34 

II. INTERLUDES 

Invocation 37 

"Feuerzauber" 40 

Sunday Night «... 42 

At Kennebunkport ....'.. 44 

In a Strange City 47 

Folk-Song 48 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

In the Streets 50 

Envy 52 

A Birthday 54 

Leaving the Harbor 60 

The Shell to the Pearl .... 61 

The Young Mystic 63 

Healed 64 

The Stirrup-Cup 69 

Spring on Broadway 70 

In a Cab 76 

Summer Night — Broadway .... 79 

Haunted 80 

Isadora Duncan Dancing .... 83 

Songs and the Poet 88 

The Heretic 

I. Blasphemy 89 

IL Irony 92 

III. Mockery 93 

IV. HUMIUTY 94 

Fifth Avenue — Spring Afternoon . 96 

Tribute 99 

III. SONGS OF PROTEST 

Challenge 103 

Caliban in the Coal-Mines . . . .104 

Any City 105 

Landscapes 107 

Two Funerals Ill 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sunday . . .113 

Strikers 118 

In the Subway 119 

Battle-Cries 121 

A Voice from the Sweat-Shops . . . 1 24 

Soldiers 128 

Peace 131 

The Dying Decadent 133 

Funeral Hymn 142 

Protests 143 



For the privilege of reprinting many of the poems 
included in this volume, the author thanks the editors 
of The Century, Harper s. The Forum, The Masses, 
The Smart Set, The Independent, The American, 
The Delineator, The New Age, The Poetry Journal 
and other magazines. 



SUMMONS 



To Walter Lippmann 



SUMMONS 

THE eager night and the impetuous 
winds, 
The hints and whispers of a thousand lures. 
And all the swift persuasion of the Spring 
Surged from the stars and stones, and swept 

me on . . . 
The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear, 
Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill 
Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice. 
A slender stream became a naked sprite. 
Flashed around curious bends, and winked at 

me 
Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous. 
A saffron moon, dangling among the trees. 
Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the 

boughs. 

Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful 

breeze ... 

[3] 



SUMMONS 

And as it hung there, vivid and unreal, 
The whole world's lethargy was brushed away ; 
The night kept tugging at my torpid mood 
And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew 
My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars; 
And over all indifference there streamed 
A myriad urges in one rushing wave. . . 
Touched with the lavish miracles of earth, 
I felt the brave persistence of the grass; 
The far desire of rivulets; the keen, 
Unconquerable fervor of the thrush; 
The endless labors of the patient worm ; 
The lichen's strength; the prowess of the ant; 
The constancy of flowers; the blind belief 
Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun; 
The eternal struggles and eternal deaths — 
And yet the groping faith of every root! 
Out of old graves arose the cry of life; 
Out of the dying came the deathless call. 
And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness. 
14] 



SUMMONS 

The thing that was my boyhood woke in me — 
Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again ; 
VaHant adventures, dreams of those to come. 
And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth. 
With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh. 
Leaped up to face the heaven's unconcern. . . 

And then — ^veil upon veil was torn aside — 
Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys. 
Danced gaily 'round me, plucking at my hand; 
The night, scorning its ancient mystery, 
Leaned down and pressed new courage in my 

heart ; 
The hermit thrush, throbbing with more than 

Song, 
Sang with a happy challenge to the skies; 
Love, and the faces of a world of children. 
Swept like a conquering army through my 

blood — 
And Beauty, rising out of all its forms, 
[5] 



SUMMONS 

Beauty, the passion of the universe, 
Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears. 
And, hke a wine, poured itself out for me 
To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go 
Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless 

fight; 
To meet with confidence the cynic years; 
Battling in wars that never can be won. 
Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat I 



16] 



PRAYER 

GOD, though this life is but a wraith. 
Although we know not what we use. 
Although we grope with little faith. 
Give me the heart to fight — and lose. 

Ever insurgent let me be. 

Make me more daring than devout; 
From sleek contentment keep me free. 

And fill me with a buoyant doubt. 

Open my eyes to visions girt 

With beauty, and with wonder lit — 

But let me always see the dirt. 

And all that spawn and die in it. 

Open my ears to music; let 

Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and 
drums — 

[7] 



PRAYER 

But never let me dare forget 
The bitter ballads of the slums. 

From compromise and things half-done. 
Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride; 

And when, at last, the fight is won 
God, keep me still unsatisfied. 



[81 



w 



TO ARMS! 
HO can be dull or wrapped in uncon- 



cern 

Knowing a world so clamorous and keen; 
A world of ardent conflict, honest spleen, 
And healthy, hot desires too swift to turn; 
Vivid and vulgar — with no heart to learn . . . 
See how that drudge, a thing unkempt, un- 
clean. 
Laughs with the royal laughter of a queen. 
Even in her the eager fires burn. 

Who can be listless in these stirring hours 
When, with athletic courage, we engage 

To storm, with fierce abandon, sterner powers 
And meet indifference with a joyful rage; 

Thrilled with a purpose and the dream that 
towers 

Out of this arrogant and blundering age. 
19] 



ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD 

{Jerome Epstein — A ugust 8. 1912) 

LO — to the battle-ground of Life, 
I Child, you have come, like a conquering 
shout. 
Out of a struggle — into strife; 
Out of a darkness — into doubt. 

Girt with the fragile armor of Youth, 
Child, you must ride into endless wars. 

With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth. 
And a banner of love to sweep the stars. 

About you the world's despair will surge; 

Into defeat you must plunge and grope — 
Be to the faltering an urge; 

Be to the hopeless years a hope! 

Be to the darkened world a flame; 

Be to its unconcern a blow — 

For out of its pain and tumult you came. 

And into its tumult and pain you go. 
[10] 



HOW MUCH OF GODHOOD 

HOW much of Godhood did it take — 
What purging epochs had to pass, 
Ere I was fit for leaf and lake 

And worthy of the patient grass? 

What mighty travails must have been. 
What ages must have moulded me. 

Ere I was raised and made akin 
To dawn, the daisy and the sea. 

In what great struggles was I felled. 
In what old lives I labored long. 

Ere I was given a world that held 
A meadow, butterflies and Song? 

But oh, what cleansings and what fears. 
What countless raisings from the dead. 

Ere I could see Her, touched with tears, 
Pillow the Httle weary head. 
[11] 



THE GREAT CAROUSAL 

OH, do not think me dead when I 
Beneath a bit of earth shall He; 
Think not that aught can ever kill 
My arrogant and stubborn will. 
My buoyant strength, my eager soul. 
My stern desire shall keep me whole 
And lift me from the drowsy deep . . . 
I shall not even yield to Sleep, 
For Death can never take from me 
My warm, insatiate energy; 
He shall not dare to touch one part 
Of the gay challenge of my heart. 
And I shall laugh at him, and lie 
Happy beneath a laughing sky; 
For I have fought too joyously 
To let the conqueror conquer me — 
I know that, after strengthening strife, 
Death cannot quench my love of life; 
112 1 



THE GREAT CAROUSAL 

Rob me of my dear self, my ears 

Of music or my eyes of tears . . . 

No, Death shall come in friendlier guise; 

The cloths of darkness from my eyes 

He shall roll back, and lo, the sea 

Of Silence shall not cover me. 

He shall make soft my final bed, 

Stand, like a servant, at my head; 

And, thrilled with all that Death may give, 

I shall lie down to rest — and live . . . 



And I shall know within the earth 
A softer but a deeper mirth. 
The wind shall never troll a song 
But I shall hear it borne along. 
And echoed long before he passes 
By all the little unborn grasses. 
I shall be clasped by roots and rains. 
Feeding and fed by Hving grains; 
[13] 



THE GREAT CAROUSAL 

There shall not be a single flower 
Above my head but bears my power. 
And every butterfly or bee 
That tastes the flower shall drink of me. 
Ah, we shall share a lip to lip 
Carousal and companionship! 



The storm, like some great blustering lout, 

Shall play his games with me and shout 

His joy to all the country-side. 

Autumn, sun-tanned and April-eyed, 

Shall scamper by and send his hosts 

Of leaves, like brown and merry ghosts. 

To frolic over me; and stones 

Shall feel the dancing in their bones. 

And red-cheeked Winter too shall be 

A jovial bed-fellow for me. 

Setting the startled hours ringing 

With boisterous tales and lusty singing. 
[14] 



THE GREAT CAROUSAL 

And, like a mother that has smiled 
For years on every tired child. 
Summer shall hold me in her lap . . 
And when the root stirs and the sap 
Climbs anxiously beyond the boughs. 
And all the friendly worms carouse. 
Then, oh, how proudly, we shall sing 
Bravuras for the feet of Spring! 



And I shall lie forever there 

Like some great king, and watch the fair 

Young Spring dance on for me, and know 

That love and rosy valleys glow 

Where'er her blithe feet touch the earth. 

And headlong joy and reckless mirth 

Seeing her footsteps shall pursue. 

Oh, I shall watch her smile and strew 

Laughter and life with either hand; 

And every quiver of the land, 
[151 



THE GREAT CAROUSAL 

Shall pierce me, while a joyful wave 
Beats in upon my radiant grave. 
Aye, like a king in deathless state 
I shall be throned, and contemplate 
The dying of the years, the vast 
Vague panorama of the past. 
The march of centuries, the surge 
Of ages. . . .but the deathless urge 
Shall stir me always, and my will 
Shall laugh to keep me living still; 
Thrilling with every call and cry — 
Too much in love with life to die. 
Content to touch the earth, to hear 
The whisper of each waiting year. 
To help the stars go proudly by, 
To speed the timid grass; and lie. 
Sharing, with every movement's breath. 
The rich eternity of Death. 



116] 



THANKS 

THANK God for this bright fraihy of 
Life, 
The lyric briefness of its reckless 
Spring; 
Thank God for all the swift adventuring. 
The bold uncertainty, the rousing strife. 

Thank God the world is set to such a tune, 
That life is such a proud and crashing 

wave; 
That none, but lifeless things, shall be 
Time's slave. 
Like the long-dead but never tiring moon; 

That godlike passion strangely leaps and runs; 
That youth cannot grow old, nor beauty 

stale; 
That even Death is fragile and must fail 
Before the wind of joy that speeds the suns. 
[17] 



GOD^S YOUTH 

1 OFTEN wish that I had been ahve 
Ere God grew old, before His eyes were 
tired 
Of the eternal circlings of the sun; 
Of the perpetual Springs; the weary years 
Forever marching on an unknown quest; 
The yawning seasons pacing to and fro, 
Like stolid sentinels to guard the earth. 
I wish that I had been alive when He 
Was still delighted with each casual thing 
His mind could fashion, when His soul first 

thrilled 
With childlike pleasure at the blooming sun; 
When the first dawn met His enraptured eyes. 
And the first prayers of men stirred in His 

heart. 
With what a glow of pride He heard the stars 

Rush by Him singing as they bravely leaped 

118] 



GOD'S YOUTH 

Into the unexplored and endless skies. 
Bearing His beauty, like a battle-cry. 
Or watched the light, obedient to His will. 
Spring out of nothingness to answer Him, 
Hurling strange suns and planets in its joy 
Of fiery freedom from the lifeless dark. 
But more than all the splendid heavens He 

made. 
The elements new-tamed, the harnessed worlds; 
In spite of these, it must have pleased Him 

most 
To feel Himself branch out, let go, dare all. 
Give utterance to His vaguely-formed desires. 
And loose a flood of fancies, wild and frank. 

Oh those were noble times ; those gay attempts. 
Those vast and droll experiments that were 

made 
When God was young and blithe and 

whimsical. 

[19] 



GOD'S YOUTH 

When, from the infinite humor of His heart. 

He made the elk with such extravagant horns, 

The grotesque monkey-folk, the angel-fish. 

That make the ocean's depths a visual heaven ; 

The animals Hke plants, the plants hke beasts ; 

The loud, inane hyena, and the great 

Impossible giraffe, whose silly head 

Threatens the stars, his feet embracing earth. 

The paradox of the peacock, whose bright 

form 

Is like a brilliant trumpet, and his voice 

A strident squawk, a cackle and a joke. 

The ostrich, Hke a snake tied to a bird. 

All out of sense and drawing, wilder far 

Than all the mad, fantastic thoughts of men. 

The hump-backed camel, like a lump of clay, 

Thumbed at for hours, and then thrown aside. 

The elephant, with splendid, useless tooth, 

And nose and arm and fingers all in one. 

The hippopotamus, absurd and bland — 
[201 



GOD'S YOUTH 

Oh, how God must have laughed when first 

He saw 
These great jests breathe and love and walk 

about ; 
And how the heavens must have echoed 

him. . . 
For greater than His beauty or His wrath 
Was God's vast mirth before His back was 

bent 
With Time and all the troubHng universe, 
Ere He grew dull and weary with creat- 
ing. . . 
Oh, to have been alive and heard that laugh 
Thrilling the stars, convulsing all the earth. 
While meteors flashed from out His sparkling 

eyes. 
And even the eternal, placid Night 
Forgot to Hft reproving fingers, smiled 

And joined, indulgent, in the merriment. . . 
[21] 



GOD'S YOUTH 

And, how they sang, and how the hours flew 
When God was young and bhthe and 
whimsical. 



[22] 



IN THE BERKSHIRE HILLS 

HOW can the village dead remain so 
still... 
Surely they tingle with the winey air. 
When the skies riot and the sunsets flare 
And all the world becomes a flaming hill. 
Surely the driest dust must turn and thrill 
When these wild breezes sweep out all 

despair — 
And lakes are bluest, pools are starriest 
where 
The streaming heavens overflow and spill. 

Oh, were it I that lay like any clod. 

Though buried under rock and gnarled tree, 
I would arise, and, through the clinging sod. 
Go struggling upward, passionate and proud; 
Laugh, with the winds and mountains 
watching me. 
And dance in triumph on my crumbhng 
shroud. 

[23] 



VOICES 

ALL day with anxious heart and 
wondering ear 
I Hstened to the city; heard the ground 
Echo with human thunder, and the sound 
Go reeling down the streets and disappear. 
The headlong hours, in their wild career, 
Shouted and sang until the world was 

drowned 
With babel-voices, each one more pro- 
found. . . 
All day it surged — but nothing could I hear. 

That night the country never seemed so still; 

The trees and grasses spoke without a word 

To stars that brushed them with their 

silver wings. 

Together with the moon I climbed the hill, 

And, in the very heart of Silence, heard 

The speech and music of immortal things. 

[241 



REVELATION 

SEPTEMBER — and an afternoon 
Heavy with languid thoughts and 
long; 
The air breathes faintly, half in swoon. 

Like silence trembling after Song. 
The mighty calmness seems to draw 

My spirit through a painless birth — 
And now, with eyes that never saw, 
I see the poetry of earth. 

That group of old maple-trees brooding in 

peace by the river, 

Happy with sunlight, and an oriole singing 

among them — 

Lo, what a marvel (what rapture for Him 

who first sung them) 

That here, in less space than a carpenter's 

workshop, the Giver 
[251 



REVELATION 

Has fashioned a casual wonder 

Greater than dawn or the thunder. 
Here in a dozen of feet He has blended 

Music and motion and color and form, 
Each in itself a creation so splendid 

That, were it the world's one beauty, 
'twould warm 
And kindle all Life till it ended. 



Birds and old maple-trees — 

Only to think of these. 

Only to dream of them here for an hour 

Is to know all the secrets of earth. 

For here is the world that God sang into 

flower 

And bloom at its birth — 

Here is its magical uplift and power; 

Its music and mirth. 
[26] 



REVELATION 

Here the sun scarcely wakes; 
Like a monarch it takes 

Rest on the lordliest branches alone. 
Till a glad tremor shakes 

Every leaf that is blown — 
While a zephyr advancing. 

Breathes gently and breaks 
The light into dancing 
Figures, with glancing 

Rhythms and rhymes of their own . 

Yes, here in this spot, in this edge of an acre 
All of the world is, the heart and the 
whole of it — 
Here is a universe; daily the Maker 

Shows here the sweet and extravagant soul 
of it. 
For the arms of the maple have held in their 
cover 
The earth and the sky and the stars, every 
one — 

[27] 



REVELATION 

Not the tenderest twig but has known, like 
a lover 

The silence, the night and the sun. 



Not the airiest bird but has sung, all un- 
knowing. 
The joy of each minstrel that carols 
unheard. 
And Summer, green fields and a world of 
things growing. 
Are brought to this spot by the breath of 
a bird. 
And there's never a wind but brings road-sides 
and ranches. 
Forests and tales of the far-off and free — 
And the rush of the breeze as it sings in the 
branches 

Echoes and answers the rush of the sea . . . 

[28] 



REVELATION 

A group of old maple-trees brooding in peace 

by the river — 
That — and a bird, nothing else . . . But 

above and around it. 
The spell of the infinite beauty, half-hidden 

forever. 
Lies, like a secret of God*s — and here I 

have found it. 
The hymn of the cosmic — the anthem that 

has for its choir 
Stars, rivers and flowers — still rises and 

sweeps me along; 
While the cry of the oriole melts in a sunset 

of fire 
And the heavens, a jubilant chorus, are 

flushed with the fires of Song ! 



[29] 



AFFIRMATION 

AS long as vigorous discontent 
Goads us from torpid ease, or worse, 
I thank the power that sent 
Struggle, the savior of the universe. 

As long as things are torn and hurled 
In this implacable unrest, 
I shall embrace the world 
With joyful fierceness and undying zest. 

I shall grow strong with every hurt; 
The scorn, the anger will achieve 
Only a glad, alert 
Desire to question boldly — and believe. 

My eager faith shall keep me set 

Against despair or careless hate, 

Knowing this smoke and sweat 

Is forging something violent — and great ! 
[30] 



DOWN-HILL ON A BICYCLE 

THE rolling earth stops 
As I climb to the summit. 
Then like a plummet 
It suddenly drops . . . 

Down, down I go — 

Past rippling acres; 

Hillsides like breakers 
Over me flow. 

Wildly alive 

I hail the green shimmer, 

Fresh as a swimmer 
After the dive. 

Like banners unfurled 

The skies dip and flourish — 

The keen breezes nourish. 

While the bright world 
[31] 



DOWN-HILL ON A BICYCLE 

Is a ribbon unrolled 

With a border of grasses; 

And tansies are masses 
And splotches of gold. 

Still I whirl on — 
Startled, a sparrow 
Darts from the yarrow. 

Flash — and is gone . . . 

Faster the gleams 
Die as they dazzle — 
And roadsides of basil 

Turn to pink streams. 

Sharp as a knife 

Is each perfume and color. 

To feel nothing duller — 
God, that were Life! 



[32] 



MIDNIGHT BY THE OPEN WINDOW 

HOW rapt the sleeping stillness of the 
night— 
Incomparably close and vast. . .One 
might 
Hear the tense silence in the little street 
Reaching to heaven, where it sv/ells and 

breaks 
Into moon-music and star-song that makes 
My senses bend and sway, as waving wheat 
Trembles before the wind's majestic feet; 
Trembles with happy fear and numb delight. 

How sharp the silence. .. like a sword to 

smite 
Brittle security and iron aches; 
A soundless and imperative blast that wakes 
Undreamed of powers, terrible and sweet. . . 
While God comes down, roused to the 

jubilant fight; 
Roused from the sleepy comfort of His seat. 
[33] 



THE WINE OF NIGHT 

COME, drink the mystic wine of Night, 
Brimming with silence and the stars, 
While earth, bathed in this holy light. 
Is seen without its scars. 
Drink in the daring and the dews. 

The calm winds and the restless gleam — 
This is the draught that Beauty brews; 
Drink — it is the Dream . . . 



Drink, oh my soul, and do not yield — 
These solitudes, this wild-rose air. 

Shall strengthen thee, shall be thy shield. 
Against a world's despair. 

Oh, quaff this stirrup-cup of stars. 

Trembling with hope and high desire — 

Then back into the hopeless wars 

With faith and fire! 
134] 



INTERLUDES 



To My Wife 



L 



INVOCATION 

1ST EN, my lute, I would turn from your 
mititant measures. 

Well have you answered the touch of 
intransigent fingers; 

Wildly your strings have vibrated — 
hut have you forgotten 

How to make love-songs? 



Lute, you are hot ta the hand; you are tense 

and exultant. 
Cease crying out — let me rest from the din 

and the battle. 
Life is not only a summoning shout and a 

struggle, 

A blow and a silence. 
[37] 



INVOCATION 

Is there not vigorous peace after vigorous 

onslaught? 
Beaut'^'s a challenge as fierce and as stirring as 

conflict. . . 
Look — how she runs through the tremulous 

twilight to meet me — 
Do ])ou remember? 



See — it is night and she turns to mp arms 

of a sudden; 
Soft as a mother and wild with the fires of 

April — 
Bashful and holdy with her passionate hair all 

about her; 

Lovely and lavish, 
[38] 



INVOCATION 

Lute, it was she who awoke and impelled us 

to singing — 
Ah, those first lyrics, impulsive and feeble 

and earnest — 
She who aroused us and soothed us — our 

passion, our pillow — 

Dare ^ou forget her! 



Only remember *tis she k^eps me rested and 

restless; 
Only remember my heart, like a. k^te in strong 

breezes. 
Leaps at the thought of her voice and her slow^ 

searching kisses. 

Stabbing and healing. 
[39] 



" FEUERZAUBER " 

I NEVER knew the earth had so much 
gold— 
The fields run over with it, and this hill 
Hoary and old. 

Is young with buoyant blooms that flame 
and thrill. 

Such golden fires, such yellows — lo, how 
good 
This spendthrift world, and what a lavish 
God— 
This fringe of wood. 

Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod. 

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see 
Your face grow mystical, as on that night 
You turned to me. 

And all the trembling world — and you — 
were white. 

[40] 



"FEUERZAUBER" 

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow 
dumb; 

The fields absorb you, color you entire. . . 
And you become 

A goddess standing in a world of fire I 



[41 J 



SUNDAY NIGHT 

TOSSING throughout this tense and 
nervous night 
Sleepless I drowse. My soul, for lack 
of rest, 
Sinks like a bird, that after flight on flight 

Misses the shelter of its well-loved nest. 
So would I gain your side and seek, my love. 
The comfortable heaven of your breast. 



Once more to lie beside the window seat. 
And see, far off, the ribboned river-lights. 

The yellow gas-lamps in the dusky street — 
And pressing close, from proud and alien 
heights. 

The noble skies and the inviolate stars 

Surround and bless us these autumnal 

nights. 

[42] 



SUNDAY NIGHT 

No words — the silence and your breathless 
name 
Are all that's in the world; and faint and 
fair 
The distant church-bells solemnly proclaim 
To all the meek and sabbath-scented 
air. . . 
I take you in my arms . . . and I awake 
Groping, with restless anger, for a prayer. 



[43] 



AT KENNEBUNKPORT 

WE sat together at the ocean's edge. 
The night was mystical and warm. 
From every rambhng roadside hedge 
Wild roses followed us with a swarm 
Of scents; the pines and every odorous tree 
Triumphed and rose above the languid sea. 
The stars were dim — 
The world was hushed, as though before a 

shrine. . . 
We sat together at the ocean's rim. 
Your hand in mine. 

Then came the moon — 

A calm, benignant moon. 

Like some indulgent mother that has smiled 

On every wayward child. 

The breathing stillness, like a wordless croon, 

Made the soft heart of heaven doubly mild; 
[441 



AT KENNEBUNKPORT 

And the salt air mingled with the air of 
June. . . 

The vast and intimate Silence — and your 
lips. ... 

Faintly we saw the lanterns of three ships. 
Three swaying sparks of sudden red and 

green. . . 
We spoke no word; we heard unseen 
A night-bird wearily flapping. 
And nothing murmured in that world of 

wonder — 
Only the hushing waters' gentle lapping. 



A distant trembling, as of ghostly thunder; 
Then, poignantly and plain. 
The lonely whistle of a weary train... 
And once again the Silence — and your lips. 
[45] 



AT KENNEBUNKPORT 

Oh let me never cease to thank you for that 

night; 
That night that eased and fortified my heart. 
When radiant peace, dearer than all delight, 
Bathed every old and feverish smart, 
Wiped out all memories of the uncleanly 

fight... 
Cradled in that great beauty, and your arms. 
The cries and mad alarms 
Were lulled and all the bitter banners furled. 
The tumult vanished, and the thought 

thereof. . . 
In you I knew the sweet contentment of the 

world, 
The balm of silence and the strength of love. 



[46 



IN A STRANGE CITY 

DUSK — and a hunger for your face 
That grows, with brooding twiHght, 
deeper. 
While in this hushed and cheerless place. 
The world lies, like a careless sleeper. 
Oh for a brave, red wave of sound 

To send Life flowing somehow through me; 
Oh for the blatant, human round 

To end these hours lone and gloomy. 

At last — the friendly summer night. 
And children's voices calling after. 

Long avenues sing out with light; 

Murmurs arise and bursts of laughter. 

I hear the lisp of happy feet — 
Life goes by like a rushing river — 

A boy comes whistling up the street. . . 

And I am lonelier than ever. 
[47] 



FOLK-SONG 

BACK she came through the trembHng 
dusk ; 
And her mother spoke and said: 
"What is it makes you late to-day. 
And why do you smile and sing as gay 

As though you just were wed?'* 
"Oft mother, my hen thai never had chicks 
Has hatched out sixT* 



Back she came through the flaming dusk; 

And her mother spoke and said: 
"What gives your eyes that dancing light, 
What makes your lips so strangely bright. 

And why are your cheeks so red?" 
"O/i mother, the berries I ate in the lane 
Have left a stain.'* 

[48] 



FOLK-SONG 

Back she came through the faUering dusk; 

And her mother spoke and said: 
"You are weeping; your footstep is heavy 

with care — 
What makes you totter and cHng to the stair. 

And why do you hang your head?" 
"O/i mother — oh mother — i?ou never can 
know — 
/ loved him soT* 



[49] 



IN THE STREETS 

BOY, my boy, it is lonely in the city. 
Days that have no pity and the nights 
without a tear 
Follow all too slowly and I can no more 
dissemble ; 
I am frightened and I tremble — and I 
would that you were here. 
Oh boy — God keep you. 



Boy, my boy, I had sworn to weep no longer. 
Time I thought was stronger than the 
evenings long gone by; 
The ardent looks, the eager hands, the 
whispers hot and hurried — 
But they all come back unburied and not 
one of them will die. 

Oh boy — God save you. 

[501 



IN THE STREETS 

Boy, my boy, you were bold with youth and 
power ; 
Your love was like a flower that you wore 
upon your sleeve. 
And wherever you may go there'll be a girl 
with eyes that glisten; 
A girl to watch and listen, and a girl for 
you to leave. 

Oh boy — God help her! 



[51] 



T 



ENVY 

HE willow and the river 

Ripple with silver speech. 
And one refrain forever 
They murmur each to each : 



"Brook with the silver gravel. 

Would that your lot were mine; 
To wander free, to travel 

Where greener valleys shine — 
Strange ventures, fresh revealings. 

And, at the end — the sea! 
Brook, with your turns and wheelings. 

How rich vour life must be/* 



"Tree with the golden rustling. 

Would that I were so blessed. 

To cease this stumbling, jostling. 

This feverish unrest. 
1321 



ENVY 

I join the ocean's riot; 

You stand song-filled — and free! 
Tree, with your peace and quiet. 

How rich your life must be." 

The nyillofv and the river 
Ripple with silver speech. 

And one refrain forever 
They murmur each io each. 



1531 



A BIRTHDAY 

AGAIN I come 
With my handful of Song — 
With my trumpery gift tricked out 
and made showy with rhyme. 
It is Spring, and the time 
When your thoughts are long; 
When the blossoming world in its confident 

prime 
Whispers and wakens imperative dreams; 
When you color and start 
With the airiest schemes 
And the laughter of children is stirring your 
heart. . . 

With all of these voices that rise to restore you 

To gladness again, 
With your heart full of things that sing and 
adore you, 

I come with my strain — 
[541 



A BIRTHDAY 

I come with my tinkling that patters like rain 

On a rickety pane; 
With a jingle of words and old tunes which 
have long 

Done duty in song; 
Spreading my verse, Hke a showman, before 

you. . . 
And you turn to the world, as you turn to the 
bosom that bore you. 



In all this singing at your heart. 
In all this ringing through the day. 
In the bravado of the May 

I have no part. . . . 

For I am not one with the conquering year 

That wakes without fear 

The lyrical souls of the feathery throng. 

That flames in the heavens when evenings are 

long; 

[55] 



A BIRTHDAY 



That surges with power and urges with cheer 
The boldness of love, the laugh of the strong, 
And the confident song. . . 



I am no longer the masterful lover 

Storming my way to the shrine of your 

heart ; 

Reckless with youth and the zest to discover 

All that the world sets apart. 

I am no longer 

Wiser and stronger; 

No longer I shout in the face of the world; 

No longer my challenge is sounded and hurled 

With such fury that even the heavens must 

hear it. 

No longer I mount on a passionate flood — 

Something has changed my arrogant spirit. 

Something has left my braggart blood. 
[56] 



A BIRTHDAY 

Something has left me — something has entered 
in — 
Something I knew not, something beyond 
my desire. 
Deeper and gentler I hold you; all that has 
been 
Seems like a spark that is lost in a forest 
of fire. 
Minor my song is, for still the old memories 
burn — 
Only in you and your thought do I find my 
release . . . 
I have done with the blustering airs, and I turn 
From the clamorous strife to the greater 
heroics of peace. 

Take me again 

Out of the cries and alarms 

All of the tumult is vain. . . 

Here in your arms. 
[571 



A BIRTHDAY 

Hold n?e again — 
0/7 have D'e Ti\mdered apart: 
A oD' it is all made plain... 
Here in your heart. 

Heal me again — 
Cleanse me nnth tears that renwve 
Pain and the riiins of pain . . . 
Here in your love. 

Minor my song was — abashed I must lower 
my voice; 
Something has touched me with nobler and 
holier hre: 
Something that thrills, as when trumpets and 
children rejoice; 
Something I knew not. something beyond 
my desire. . . 
Minor no longer — the sighing and droning 
depart ; 
In a chorus of triumph the jubilant spirits 
increase — 

1 38 1 



A BIRTHDAY 



Shelter and spur me forever in tlie merciful 
strength of your heart. 
You who have soothed me with passion and 
roused me with passionate peace. 



[591 



LEAVING THE HARBOR 

AT last the great, red sun sank low. 
An evil, blood-shot eye. 
And cooling airs sprang up to blow 
TTie sea that challenged, glow for glow, 
The angry face of the sky. 

Still burned the streets we had left behind, 

Where, tortured and broken down. 
The millions scarcely hoped to find 
A moment's escape from the maddening grind 
In the terrible furnace of town. 

And, blotting out cities, the twilight fell 

With a single star at seven. . . 

The sea grew wider beneath the spell 

And the moon, like a broken silver shell. 

Lay on the shore of heaven. 
[60] 



THE SHELL TO THE PEARL 



G 



ROW not so fast, glow not so warm; 
Thy hidden fires burn too wild- 
Too perfect is thy rounded form; 
Cling close, my child. 



Be yet my babe, rest quiet when 

The great sea-urges beat and call; 
Too soon wilt thou be ripe for men, 

The world and all. 

Thy shining skin, thy silken sheath. 
These will undo thee all too soon; 
And men will fight for thee beneath 

Some paler moon . . . 

Aye, thou my own, my undefiled, 

Shalt make the lewd world dream and start. 

When they have seized and torn thee, child. 

Out of my heart. 
161] 



THE SHELL TO THE PEARL 

With velvets shall thy bed be laid; 
A royal captive thou shalt be — 
And oh, what prices will be paid 

To ransom thee. 

Thy path shall be a track of gold. 

Of lust, of death and countless crimes; 
Bought by a sensual world — and sold 

A thousand times. . . 

And each shall lose thee at the last. 

Hating, yet still desiring thee. . . 
While I He, where I have been cast. 
Back in the sea. 

So wait — and, lest the world transform 

Thy soul and make thee wanton-wild. 
Grow not so fasU glow not so warm. 

Cling close, mp child, 

[62] 



THE YOUNG MYSTIC 

WE sat together close and warm, 
My little tired boy and I — 
Watching across the evening sky 
The coming of the storm. 

No rumblings rose, no thunders crashed. 
The west-wind scarcely sang aloud; 
But from a huge and solid cloud 

The summer lightnings flashed. 

And then he whispered *'Father, watch; 
I think God's going to light His moon — " 
"And when, my boy'* . . . **Oh, very soon — 

I saw Him strike a match!" 



[63] 



HELALED 

THE winds like a pack of hounds 
Snap at my dragging hotels 
With sudden Icapings and playful 
bounds 
They urge me out to the givener grounds 
W here the butterfly sinks and the swallow 
reels 
Giddy with Spring, with its smells and 
sounds — 
And I go. . . 

For of late I have t retted and sulked, and 
clung to my books and the house; 
Lethargic with winter fancies and dulled 
with a torpid mood — 
But now I am called by the grasses; the rumor 
of blossoming boughs; 
The hints of a thousand singers and the 
ancient thrill of the wood. 
lo4l 



HEALED 

For the streets run over with sunhght and spill 
A glory on bricks and the dustiest sill; 
And Life, like a great drum, pulses and 
pounds — 
I follow the world and I follow my will, 
And I go to see what the park reveals 
When the winds, like a pack of buoyant 
hounds. 
Snap at my dragging heels . . . 



Once with the green again 
How I am changed — 

Lo, I have seen again 
Friends long estranged. 

Once more the lyrical 
Rose-bush and river; 

Once more the miracle. 

Greater than ever! 
103] 



HEALED 

Where is there duiness now — 

Rich with new urges 
Life in its fullness now 

Surges and purges 
All that is brash in me — 

Sunlight and Song 
These things will fashion me 

Splendid and strong. 

Splendid and strong I shall grow once again; 
Joyful and clean as the mind of a child. 
As tears after pain, 

Or hearts reconciled. 
As woods washed with rain, 
As love in the wild. 
Or that bird to whom all things but singing 
is vain. 

"Bird, there were songs in you»- heart just as 
rapturous 

As these that you bring — 

166] 



HEALED 

Why when we longed for your magic to cap- 
ture us 

Did you not sing? 
Now with the world making music we heed 

you not. 
Coward, for all your fine challenge, we need 
you not — 

We too are brave with the Spring!'* 



So I sang — but a something was missing; the 

song and the sunlight were stale. 

Though a squirrel had sat on my shoulder 

and sparrows had fed from my hand; 

Though I heard the white laughter of ripples 

and the breezes* faint answering hail. 

And somewhere a bird's voice I knew not 

— yet hearing could half understand . . . 
[67] 



HEALED 

And lo, at my doorstep I sa\v it; it shouted to 
me as I came — 
It laughed in its simple revealment, a miracle 
common and wild; 
Plainly I heard and beheld it, bright as a 
forest of flame — 
And its face was the face of a mother, and 
its voice was the voice of a child. 



[681 



THE STIRRUP-CUP 

YOUR eyes — and a thousand stars 
Leap from the night to aid me; 
I scale the impossible bars, 
I laugh at a world that dismayed me. 

Your voice — and the thundering skies 
Tremble and cease to appall me — 

Coward no longer, I rise 

Spurred for what battles may call me. 

Your arms — and my purpose grows strong; 

Your lips — and high passions complete 
me. . . 
For your love, it is armor and Song — 

And where is the thing to defeat me! 



[69] 



M 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 

AKE way for Spring — 

Spring that*s a stranger in the city. 
Spring that's a truant in the town. 
Make way for Spring, for she has no pity 
And she will tear your barriers down — 
Make way for Spring! 

See from her hidden valleys, 

With mirth that never palls. 
She comes with songs and sallies. 

With bells and magic calls. 
And dances down your alleys. 

And whispers through your walls. 

You who never once have missed her 

In your town of pomp and pride 

Now in vain you will resist her — 

You will feel her at your side; 
I 70 J 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 



Even in the smallest street, 
Even in the densest throng. 
She will follow at your feet. 
She will walk with you along. 
She will stop you as you start 
Here and there, and growing bolder. 
She will touch you on the shoulder. 
She will clutch you at the heart . . . 

Merchant, you who drink your mead 

From a golden cup. 
Shut your ears, and do not heed; 

Look not up. 
Beware — for she is light as air. 

And her charm will work confusion; 
Spring is but an old delusion 
And a snare. . . . 
Merchant, you who drink your mead 

While the thirsty die. 
Shut your eyes, and do not heed — 
Pass her by. 
[711 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 

Maiden with the nun-Hke eyes 

Do not pause to greet her; 

Spring is far too wild and wise — 
Do not meet her. 

Do not Hsten while she tells 

Her persuasive lures and spells; 

Do not learn her secrets, lest 

She should plant them in your breast; 

Whisper things to shame and shock you, 

Make your heart beat fast — and mock you; 

Send you dreams that rob your rest. . . 

Maiden with the nun-like eyes 

Spring is far too wild and wise. 

And you, my friend, with hasty stride 
Think you to escape her; 
Ah, hke fire touching paper, 

She will burn into your side. 

She will rouse you once again; 

She will sway you, till you follow 
[72] 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 

Like the smallest singing swallow 
In her train. 

Put irons on your feet, my friend, 

And chain your soul with golden weights. 

Lest she should move you in the end 

And lead you past the city gates; 

And make you frolic with the wind; 

And play a thousand godlike parts; 

And sing — until within you starts 

A pity for the senseless blind. 

The deaf, the dumb and all their kind 

Whose eager, aimless footsteps wind 

Forever to the frantic marts. 

Through every mad and breathless street. . . 

My friend, put irons on your feet. 

So — and that is right, my friend; 

Do not yield. 

Send her on her way, and end 

All her folHes; let her spend 
[73] 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 

Her reckless days and nights concealed 
In wood and field 

The paths beyond the town are clear; 
These skies are wan — 
Bid her begone. 

What is she doing here? 

What is she doing here — and why? 

The city is no place for Spiing. 

What can she have; what can she bring 

That you would care to buy. 
Her songs? Alas, you do not sing. 
Her smiles? You have no time to try. 
Her wings? You do not care to fly — 
Spring has not fashioned anything 

To tempt your jaded eye. 

The city is no place for her — 

It is too violent and shrill; 

Too full of graver things — ^but still 
[74] 



SPRING ON BROADWAY 

Beneath the throbbing surge and stir, 
Her spirit lives and moves, until 

Even the dullest feel the spur 
Of an awakened will. 

Make way then — Life, rejoicing. 

Calls, with a lyric rout. 
Till in this mighty voicing 

The very stones sing out; 
Till nowhere is a single 

Sleeping or silent thing. 
And worlds that meet and mingle 

Fairly tingle with the Spring. 

Make way for Her — 

For the fervor of Life, 
For the passions that stir, 

For the courage of Strife; 
For the struggles that bring 

A more vivid day — 
Make way for Spring; 
Make way! 
[751 



R 



IN A CAB 

AIN — and the lights of the city. 

Blurred by the mist on the pane. 
A thing without passion or pity — 
This is the rain. 



It beats on the roof with derision, 

It howls at the doors of the cab — 
Phantoms go by in a vision. 

Distorted and drab. 

Torpor and dreariness greet me; 

All of the things I abhor 
Rise to confront and defeat me, 

As I ride to your door. . . 

At last you have come; you have banished 

The gloom of each rain-haunted street — 

The tawdry surroundings have vanished; 

The evening is sweet. 
176] 



IN A CAB 

Now the whole city is dreamlike; 

The rain plays the lightest of tunes; 
The lamps through the mist make it seem like 
A city of moons. 

No longer my fancies run riot; 

I hold the most magic of charms — 
You smile at me, warm and unquiet, 
Here in my arms. 

I do not wonder or witness 

Whether it rains or is fair; 
I only can think of your sweetness. 

And the scent of your hair. 

I am deaf to the clatter and drumming. 

And life is a thing to ignore. . . 
Alas, my beloved, we are coming 

Once more to your door! . . . 

[771 



IN A CAB 



You have gone; it is listless and lonely; 

The evening is empty again; 
The world is a blank — there is only 
The desolate rain. 



[78] 



SUMMER NIGHT— BROADWAY 

NIGHT is the city's disease. 
The streets and the people one sees 
Glow with a hght that is strangely 
inhuman ; 

A fever that never grows cold. 
Heaven completes the disgrace; 
For now, with her star-pitted face. 

Night has the leer of a dissolute woman. 
Cynical, moon-scarred and old. 

And I think of the country roads; 
Of the quiet, sleeping abodes. 

Where every tree is a silent brother 
And the hearth is a thing to cling to. 
And I sicken and long for it now — 
To feel clean winds on my brow. 

Where Night bends low, like an all-wise 
mother 
Looking for children to sing to. 
[79] 



HAUNTED 

BETWEEN the moss and stone 
The lonely lilies rise; 
Wasted and overgrown 
The tangled garden lies. 
Weeds climb about the stoop 

And clutch the crumbling walls; 
The drowsy grasses droop — 
The night wind falls. 

The place is like a wood ; 

No sign is there to tell 
Where rose and iris stood 

That once she loved so well. 
Where phlox and asters grew, 

A leafless thornbush stands. 
And shrubs that never knew 

Her tender hands. . . 

[801 



HAUNTED 

Over the broken fence 

The moonbeams trail their shrouds; 
Their tattered cerements 

CHng to the gauzy clouds. 
In ribbons frayed and thin — 

And startled by the light. 
Silence shrinks deeper in 

The depths of night. 



Useless lie spades and rakes; 

Rust's on the garden-tools. 
Yet, where the moonlight makes 

Nebulous silver pools, 
A ghostly shape is cast — 

Something unseen has stirred. 

Was it a breeze that passed? 

Was it a bird? 
[81 J 



HAUNTED 

Dead roses lift their heads 

Out of a grassy tomb; 
From ruined pansy-beds 

A thousand pansies bloom. 
The gate is opened wide — 

The garden that has been. 
Now blossoms like a bride . . 

Who entered in? 



[82] 



ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 

"IPHIGENIA IN AULIS" 

I 

FLING the stones and let them all 
Lie; 
Take a breath, and toss the ball 

High- 
And before it strikes the floor 
Of the hoar and aged shore. 
Sweep them up, though there should be 
Even more than two or three. 

Add a pebble, then once more 
Fling the stones and let them all 

Lie; 
Take a breath, and toss the ball 

High.... 

183] 



ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 

2 
Rises now the sound of ancient chants 

And the circling figure moves more slowly. 
Thus the stately gods themselves must dance 

While the world grows rapturous and holy. 
Thus the gods might weave a great Romance 

Singing to the sighs of flute and psalter; 
Till the last of all the many chants, 

And the priestess sinks before the altar. 

3 

Cease, oh cease the murmured singing; 

Hush the numbers brave or blithe, 
For she enters gravely swinging. 

Lowering and lithe — 
Dark and vengeful as the ringing 
Scythe meets scythe. 

While the flame is fiercely sweeping 

All her virgin airs depart; 
[84] 



ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 

She is, without smiles and weeping 

Or a maiden's art, 
Stern and savage as the leaping 
Heart meets heart! 



4 

Now the tune grows frantic. 

Now the torches flare — 
Wild and corybantic 

Echoes fill the air. 
With a sudden sally 

All the voices shout; 
And the bacchic rally 

Turns into a rout. 

Here is life that surges 

Through each burning vein; 

Here is joy that purges 

Every creeping pain. 
[85] 



ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 

Even sober Sadness 
Casts aside her pall. 

Till with buoyant madness 
She must swoon and fall . . 



CHOPIN 

FAINT preludings on a flute 
And she swims before us; 
Shadows follow in pursuit. 
Like a phantom chorus. 
Sense and sound are intertwined 

Through her necromancy, 
Till our dreaming souls are blind 

To all things but fancy. 
[861 



ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 

Haunted woods and perfumed nights. 

Swift and soft desires, 
Roses, violet-colored lights. 

And the sound of lyres. 
Vague chromatics on a flute — 

All are subtly blended. 
Till the instrument grows mute 

And the dance is ended. 



[87] 



s 



SONGS AND THE POET 

{For Sara Teasdale) 

ING of the rose or of the mire; sing strife 
Or rising moons; the silence or the 
throng. . . 
Poet, it matters not, if Life 

Is in the song. 



If Life rekindles it, and if the rhymes 

Bear Beauty as their eloquent refrain. 
Though it were sung a thousand times. 
Sing it again! 

Thrill us with song — let others preach or rage ; 
Make us so thirst for Beauty that we cease 
These struggles, and this strident age 

Grows sweet with peace. 



[88] 



THE HERETIC 
I. 

BLASPHEMY 

I DO not envy God — 
There is no thing in all the skies or under 
To startle and awaken Him to wonder; 
No marvel can appear 
To stir His placid soul with terrible thunder — 
He was not born with awe nor blessed with 
fear. 

I do not envy God — 
He is not burned with Spring and April mad- 
ness ; 
The rush of Life — its rash, impetuous gladness 

He cannot hope to know. 
He cannot feel the fever and the sadness 

The leaping fire, the insupportable glow. 
[89] 



BLASPHEMY 

I do not envy God — 
Forever He must watch the planets crawHng 
To flaming goals where sun and star are fall- 
ing; 
He cannot wander free. 
For He must face, through centuries appall- 
ing, 
A vast and infinite monotony. 



I do not envy God — 

He cannot die, He dare not even slumber. 

Though He be God and free from care and 

cumber, 

I would not share His place; 

For He must live when years have lost their 

number 

And Time sinks crumbling into shattered 

Space. 

[90] 



BLASPHEMY 

I do not envy God — 
Nay more, I pity Him His lonely heaven; 
I pity Him each lonely morn and even. 

His splendid lonely throne: 
For He must sit and wait till all is riven 

Alone — through all eternity — alone. 



[911 



II. 

IRONY 

WHY are the things that have no death 
The ones with neither sight nor 
breath. 
Eternity is thrust upon 
A bit of earth, a senseless stone. 
A grain of dust, a casual clod 
Receives the greatest gift of God. 
A pebble in the roadway lies — 

It never dies. 

The grass our fathers cut away 
Is growing on their graves to-day; 
The tiniest brooks that scarcely flow 
Eternally will come and go. 
There is no kind of death to kill 
The sands that lie so meek and still . . . 
But Man is great and strong and wise — 

And so he dies. 
192] 



III. 

MOCKERY 

GOD, I return to you on April days 
When along country-roads you walk 
with me; 
And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree 
That shames the bleak world with its yellow 

sprays. 
My faith revives when, through a rosy haze, 
The clover-sprinkled hills smile quietly; 
Young winds uplift a bird's clean ecstacy . . . 
For this, oh God, my joyousness and praise. 

But now — the crowded streets and choking airs, 
The huddled thousands bruised and tossed 
about — 

These, or the over-brilliant thoroughfares. 
The too-loud laughter and the empty shout ; 

The mirth-mad city, tragic with its cares. . . 

For this, oh God, my silence — and my 

doubt. 

[93] 



IV. 

HUMILITY 

OH God, if I have ever been 
So filled with ignorance and sin 
That I have dared to use Thy name 
In blasphemy, in jest, in shame; 
If ever I have dared to flout 
Thy works, and mock Thy deeds with doubt. 
Thou must forgive me as Thou art divine 
For, God, the fault was Thine as well as mine. 

Oh, I have used Thee, time on time. 
To fill a phrase, to round a rhyme; 
But was this wrong? Nay, in Thy heart 
Thou knowest the noble theme Thou art. . . 
Was it my fault that as I sung 
The daring speech was on my tongue? 
Nay; if my singing, God, gave Thee offense. 
Thou wouldst have robbed me of the lyric 
sense. 

[94] 



HUMILITY 

But dignity hath made Thee dumb, 
And so Thou biddest me to come 
And be a sonant part of Thee; 
To sing Thy praise in blasphemy. 
To be the Hfe within the clod 
That points the paradox of God. 
To chant, beneath a loud and lyric grief, 
A faith that flaunts its very disbelief. 



[95] 



FIFTH AVENUE— SPRING AFTER- 
NOON 

THE world's running over with color. 
With whispers, strange fervors and 
April — 
There's a smell in the air as if meadows 
Were under our feet. 



Spring smiles at the commonest waysides; 
But she pours out her heart to the city. 
As one woman might to another 

Who meet after years. . . 



Restless with color and perfume. 

The streets are a riot of blossoms. 

What garden could boast of such flowers- 

Not Eden itself. 
[96] 



FIFTH AVENUE— SPRING AFTERNOON 

Primroses, pinks and gardenias. 
Shame the gray town and its squalor — 
Windows are flaming with jonquils; 
Fires of gold! 

Out of a florist's some pansies 
Peer at the crowd, like the faces 
Of solemnly mischievous children 
Going to bed. . . 

And women — Spring's favorite children- 
Frail and phantastically fashioned. 
Pass like a race of immortals. 

Too radiant for earth. 

The pale and the drab are transfigured. 

They sing themselves into the sunshine- 

Every girl is a lyric. 

An urge and a lure. 
[97] 



FIFTH AVENUE— SPRING AFTERNOON . 

And, like a challenge of trumpets. 
The Spring and its impulse goes through me — 
Breezes and flowers and people 
Sing in my blood. . . 

Breezes and flowers and people — 
And under it all, oh beloved. 
Out of the song and the sunshine. 
Rises your face! 



198] 



TRIBUTE 

NEVER will you let me 
Tire of leaping passion; 
Never can I grow weary 
Of undesired joys. 

The delicate strength of your bosom 
Your hands' incredible softness; 
The fluent curve of your body; 
The fierceness of your lips; 

Ceaselessly do they call me — 
You and your eloquent beauty 
Are challenge and invitation 
Too ravishing to resist. 

Always the burning summons. 

The sweet, imperative madness, 

Rides over me, like a conqueror, 

Careless and confident. . . 
[99] 



TRIBUTE 



Even so goes Love, 
Trampling and invincible; 
With rapt and pitiless beauty. 
Rough-shod over the world! 



[1001 



SONGS OF PROTEST 



To James Oppenheim 



CHALLENGE 

rHE quiet and courageous night. 
The keen vibration of the stars. 
Call me, from morbid peace, to fight 
The world*s forlorn and desperate wars. 



The air throbs like a rolling drum — 
The brave hills and the singing sea^ 

Unrest and peopWs faces come 
Like battle-trumpets, rousing me. 



And while Lifers lusty banner flies, 
I shall assail, with raging mirth. 

The scornful and untroubled skies. 
The cold complacency of earth. 



[1031 



CALIBAN IN THE COAL MINES 



G 



OD, we don*t like to complain 

We know that the mine is no lark — 
But — there's the pools from the rain; 
But — there's the cold and the dark. 



God, You don't know what it 
You, in Your well-lighted sky. 

Watching the meteors whizz; 
Warm, with the sun always by. 

God, if You had but the moon 
Stuck in Your cap for a lamp. 

Even You'd tire of it soon, 

Down in the dark and the damp. 

Nothing but blackness above. 

And nothing that moves but the cars- 
God, if You wish for our love, 

Fling us a handful of stars! 
1 104 1 



ANY CITY 

INTO the staring street 
She goes on her nightly round. 
With weary and tireless feet 
Over the wretched ground. 

A thing that man never spurns, 
A thing that all men despise; 
Into her soul there burns 
The street wdth its pitiless eyes. 

She needs no charm or wile. 
She carries no beauty or power. 
But a tawdry and casual smile 
For a tawdry and casual hour. 

The street with its pitiless eyes 

Follows wherever she lurks. 

But she is hardened and wise — 

She rattles her bracelets and smirks 
[105] 



ANY CITY 

She goes with her sordid array, 
Luring, without a lure; 
She is man's hunger and prey — 
His lust and its hideous cure. 

All that she knows are the lies. 
The evil, the squalor, the scars; 
The street with its pitiless eyes. 
The night with its pitiless stars. 



[106] 



LANDSCAPES 

(For Clement R. Wood) 

THE rain was over, arid the brilliant air 
Made every little blade of grass appear 
Vivid and startling — everything was 
there 
With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear. 
As though one saw it in a crystal sphere. 
The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; 
The golden-rod with all its million fires; 
(A million torches swinging in the wind) 
A single poplar, marvellously thinned, 
Half like a naked boy, half Hke a sword; 
Clouds, hke the haughty banners of the Lord; 
A group of pansies with their shrewish faces. 
Little old ladies cackling over laces; 
The quaint, unhurried road that curved so 

well; 
The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; 
[107] 



LANDSCAPES 

The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field — 
How bountifully were they all revealed! 
How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive — 
So frank and strong, so radiantly alive! 

And over all the morning-minded earth 
There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling 

mirth. 
Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw 
The toad face heaven without shame or awe. 
The ant confront the stars, and every weed 
Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed ; 
While all the things that die and decompose 
Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose . . . 
Oh, what a liberal power that made them 

thrive 
And keep the very dirt that died, alive. 

And now I saw the slender willow-tree 

No longer calm or drooping listlessly, 
[108] 



LANDSCAPES 

Letting its languid branches sway and fall 
As though it danced in some sad ritual; 
But rather like a young, athletic girl, 
Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl. 
And flying in the wind — her head thrown 

back, 
Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, 
And all her rushing spirits running over. . . 
What made a sober tree seem such a rover — 
Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees. 
That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace. 
Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame. 
And burn the trembling orchard there below. 
What lit the heart of every golden-glow — 
Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame ? . . 
Beauty it was, and keen, compassionate mirth 
That drives the vast and energetic earth. 

And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, 

I saw the huddled tenements arise. 
[109] 



LANDSCAPES 

Here where the merry clover danced and 

shone 
Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; 
There, where green Silence laughed or stood 

enthralled, 
Cheap music blared and evil alleysi sprawled. 
The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; 
Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills — 
The menace of these things swept over me; 
A threatening, unconquerable sea. . . 

A stirring landscape and a generous earth! 
Freshening courage and benevolent mirth — 
And then the city, like a hideous sore. . . 
Good God, and what is all this beauty for ? 



[110] 



TWO FUNERALS 
I. 

UPON a field of shrieking red 
A mighty general stormed and fell. 
They raised him from the common 
dead 
And all the people mourned him well. 
"Swiftly/* they cried, **let honors come, 
And Glory with her deathless bays; 
For him let every muffled drum 

And grieving bugle thrill with praise. 
Has he not made the whole world fear 

The very lifting of his sword — 
Has he not slain his thousands here 
To glorify the Law and Lord! 
Then make his bed of sacred sod; 

To greater deeds no man can win*' . . . 
And each amused and ancient god 

Began to grin. 
[nil 



TWO FUNERALS 



II. 

Facing a cold and sneering sky. 

Cold as the sneering hearts of men, 
A man began to prophesy, 

To speak of love and faith again. 
Boldly he spoke, and bravely dared 

The savage jest, the kindlier stone; 
The armies mocked at him; he fared 

To battle gaily — and alone. 
Alone he fought; alone, to move 

A world whose wars would never cease- 
And all his blows were struck for love, 

And all his fighting was for peace. . . 
They tortured him with thorns and rods. 

They hanged him on a frowning hill — 
And all the old! and heartless gods 

Are laughing still 

[112] 



SUNDAY 

IT was Sunday — 
Eleven in the morning; people were at 
church — 

Prayers were in the making; God was near at 
hand — 

Down the cramped and narrow streets of quiet 
Lawrence 

Came the tramp of workers marching in their 
hundreds ; 

Marching in the morning, marching to the 
grave-yard, 

Where, no longer fiery, underneath the grasses. 

Callous and uncaring, lay their friend and 
sister. 

In their hands they carried wreaths and droop- 
ing flowers. 

Overhead their banners dipped and soared like 

eagles — 

[113] 



SUNDAY 

Aye, but eagles bleeding, stained with their 

own heart's-blood — 
Red, but not for glory — red, with wounds and 

travail. 
Red, the buoyant symbol of the blood of all 

the world. . . 
So they bore their banners, singing toward the 

grave-yard. 
So they marched and chanted, mingling tears 

and tributes. 
So, with flowers, the dying went to deck the 

dead. 

Within the churches people heard 

The sound, and much concern was theirs — 

God might not hear the Sacred Word — - 
God might not hear their prayers! 

Should such things he allowed these slaves — 

To vex the Sabbath peace with Song, 
[1141 



SUNDAY 

To come with chants, like marching Tvaves, 
That proudlp swept along. . . 

Suppose Cod turned to these — and heard! 

Suppose He listened unawares — 
Cod might forget the Sacred Word, 

Cod might forget their prayers! 

And so (oh, tragic irony) 

The blue-clad Guardians of the Peace 
Were sent to sweep them back — to see 

The ribald song should cease; 

To scatter those who came and vexed 
God with their troubled cries and cares. 

Quiet — so God might hear the text; 
The sleek and unctuous prayers! 

Up the rapt and singing streets of little Law- 
rence, 

[1151 



SUNDAY 

Came the stolid soldiers; and, behind the blue- 
coats, 

Grinning and invisible, bearing unseen 
torches. 

Rode red hordes of anger, sweeping all before 
them. 

Lust and Evil joined them — Terror rode 
among them; 

Fury fired its pistols; Madness stabbed and 
yelled. . . 

Through the wild and bleeding streets of shud- 
dering Lawrence, 

Raged the heedless panic, hour-long and bitter. 

Passion tore and trampled ; men once mild and 
peaceful. 

Fought with savage hatred in the name of Law 
and Order. 

And, below the outcry, like the sea beneath 

the breakers, 

[116] 



SUNDAY 

Mingling with the anguish, rolled the solemn 
organ. . . 

Eleven in the morning — ^people were at 

church — 
Prayers were in the making — God was near at 

hand — 
It was Sunday ! 



[117] 



I 



STRIKERS 

N the mud and scum of things. 

Underneath the whole world's blot. 
Something, they tell us, always sings — 
Wh}^ do We hear it not? 



In the heart of things unclean. 
Somewhere, in the furious fight. 

The face of God is plainly seen — 
What has destroyed our sight? 

Yet have we heard enough to feel. 
Yet have we seen enough to know 

Who bound us to the awful wheel. 
Whose hands have brought us low. 

And we shall cry out till the wind 

Roars in their ears the thing to come — 

Yea, though they made us deaf and blinds 

Nothing shall keep us dumb! 
[118] 



IN THE SUBWAY 

CHAOS is tamed and ordered as we ride; 
The rock is rent, the darkness flung 
aside 
And all the horrors of the deep defied. 

A coil of wires, a throb, a sudden spark — 
And on a screaming meteor we embark 
That hurls us past the cold and breathless 
dark. 

The centuries disclose their secret graves — 
Riding in splendor through a world of waves 
The ancient elements become our slaves. 

Uncanny fancies whisper to and fro; 
Terror and Night surround us here below. 
And through the house of Death we come 

and go. . . 

[119] 



IN THE SUBWAY 



And here, oh wildest gHmpse of all, I see 
The score of men and women facing me 
Reading their papers calmly, leisurely. 



[120] 



Y 



BATTLE-CRIES 

ES, Jim hez gone — ye didn't know? 
He's fightin' at the front. 
It's him as bears *his country's hopes', 
An' me as bears the brunt. 



Wen war bruk out Jim 'lowed he'd go — 

He alius loved a scrap — 
Ye see, the home wam't jest the place 

Fer sech a lively chap. 

O' course, the work seems ruther hard; 

The kids is ruther small — 
It ain't that I am sore at Jim, 

I envy him — that's all. 

He doesn't know what he's about 

An' cares still less, does Jim. . . 

With all his loose an' roarin' ways 

I wisht that I was him. 
[1211 



BATTLE-CRIES 

It makes him glad an* drunken-like 

That music an' the smoke; 
An' w'en they shout, the whole thing seems 

A picnic an' a joke. 

Oh, yellin' puts a heart in ye. 

An' stren'th into yer blows — 
I wisht that I could hears those cheers 

Washin' the neighbors clo'es. . . 

It's funny how some things work out — 
Life is so strange. Lord love us — 

Here am I, workin' night an' day 
To keep a roof above us; 

An' Jim is somewhere in the south. 

An' Jim ain't really bad, 

A-runnin' round an' raisin' Cain, 

An' stabbin' some kid's dad. 
[122] 



BATTLE-CRIES 

But that's w'at men are made for — eh? 

Wat else is there for me 
But workin' on till Jim comes home. 

Sick of his bloody spree. 



[123] 



A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS 

{A HYMN WITH RESPONSES) 

"PyRAISE God from Whom all blessings 
1 flow; 

Praise Him all creatures here below, 
Ever^ morning mercies new 
Fall as fresh as morning dew.** 

Yet we are choked with sin 
With bestial lusts and guile; 

God (so it runs) made this world clean 
And Man has made it vile. 

Aye, here Man lives on man, 
And breaks him day by day — 

But in the trampled jungle 
The tiger claws his prey. 

God's curse is on the thief; 

The murderer fares ill — 
[124] 



A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS 

Who gave the beasts their taste for blood 
Who taught them how to kill? 

"'All praise to Him Who built the hills. 
All praise to Him Who each stream fills; 
All praise to Him Who lights each star 
That sparkles in the skV' afar^ 

All praise to Him who made 
The earthquake and the flood; 

All praise to Him who made the pest 
That sucks away the blood. 

All praise to Him whose mind 

Had the desire to make 
The shark, the scorpion, the gnat 

And the envenomed snake. 

Beauty itself He turns 

To slay and to be slain — 
[1251 



A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS 

A thousand evil poisons 

His peaceful woods contain. 

**Lift up ^our heart! Lift up ])our voice! 
Rejoice! Again I sap, rejoice! 
For His mercies, they are sure 
His compassion n^ill endure!'* 

Rejoice because each man 

Has but a man's desire 
To sin the little human sins 

As a child that plays with fire. 

Rejoice because God*s plans 
Are far too deep for talk. . . 

He lets the swallow feed on flies — 
Then gives it to the hawk! 

Rejoice because He made 

A world in some wild mood; 
1126] 



A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS 

A world that feeds upon Itself — 
*And Cod saw it tvas good. . .' 

Yet who are we to rail — 
Vainly we strive and storm — 

God moves In a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform! 

*Blind unbelief Is sure to err/ 
They say, and yet again, 

God is His own interpreter' — 
When Tvill He make it plain? 



127] 



SOLDIERS 

GAY flags flying down the street; 
Comes the drum's insistent beat 
Like a fierce, gigantic pulse. 
And the screaming fife exults. 

Soldier, soldier, spic and span. 
Aren't you the lucky man; 
Splendid in your gold and blue — 
How the small boy envies you! 

Oh, there's glory for you here — 
Girls to smile and men to cheer; 
Bands behind and bands before 
Thrilling with the lust of War. 

Soldier, soldier, proud as though 

Marching to a sanguine foe. 

Bravely would you face the brink 

Fired with music, and with drink . . . 
[128] 



SOLDIERS 

Stalwart warrior pass, and be 
Glad you are not such as we — 
We, who, without flags or drums, 
March to battle in the slums. 

Regiments of workers — we 
Are a foolish soldiery. 
Combating, till we convert, 
Ignorance, disease and dirt. . . 

Soldier, soldier, look — and then 
Laugh at us poor fighting-men. 
Struggling on, though every street 
Is the scene of our defeat. 

Laugh at us, who, day by day 

Come back beaten from the fray; 

We, who find our work undone — 

We, whose wars are never won. 
1129] 



SOLDIERS 



Ca^ flags flying doTDn the street; 
Comes the drurns insistent beat 
Like a fierce, gigantic pulse — 
And the screaming fife exults! 



[1301 



PEACE 



(TTie Fisheries dispute having been amicabl}} com- 
promised, the world is at peace again. 

.... News Despatch.) 



^ AT Peace ? The world has never been at 
jTx peace — 

Its wars are never-ending; there is 
naught 
In all its battles like these overwrought 
And storming hours with their dark increase. 
The cities roar; in every street one sees 

Women and children, battle-wounded, 

caught. — 
No slaves, no shattered hosts have ever 
fought 
So bitterly, so hopeless of release . . . 
[1311 



PEACE 

Well, if it must be war, take up the sword, 
Facing the world with grim and savage glee ; 

And, with the courage of a Faith restored. 
Strike till the darkness falters, and we see 

That liberty is no mere gaudy word. 
And peace no slothful, placid mockery. 



1132] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

And rvhen the evening came he fell asleep. 
And dreamed a dream of pallid loveliness: 

HE wandered in a forest dark and deep, 
Where phantoms passed him with a 
soft caress; 
Where shadows moved and ghostly spirits 
stood 
Sphinxes of silence, wraiths of mystery; 
A magic wood, a strange and scented wood 
Where roses sprang from every withered 
tree. 
A wood that woke his wonder and his fear, 
A wood of whispered spells and shameful 
lore. 
Beyond whose furthest rim he seemed to hear 
A lonely sea upon a lonelier shore. 

Visions swept by him with a chanted spell, 
1133 1 



THE DYING DECADENT 

Crouched at his feet and murmured at his 
side — 
And like a dim refrain there rose and fell 

The restless minor of an ebbing tide. . . 
Then, amidst broken sighs and wafts of song. 

Borne on the breezes blowing from the west. 
He saw one figure dancing in the throng 

More wan and wonderful than all the rest. 

The singing grew and nearer still she came, 

A being made of rose and fire and mist; 
Her deep eyes burning like the purple flame 

Hid in the heart of every amethyst. 
And, with the crooning of the distant sea, 

She sang to charm his soul and still his fear: 
"Oh, come, my love that wanders wearily ; 

Oh, come, for you have called, and I am 

here. . . 

Oh, I have waited long to bring you there. 

Beyond the border of the things that are, 
[1341 



THE DYING DECADENT 

Where all is terrible and strange and fair. 
As were your dreams that reached my 
favorite star. . . 
For you shall live and set the suns to rhyme; 

You shall escape a mortal's petty fate; 
You shall behold the birth and death of 
Time. . . 
Oh come, my love, for you these wonders 
wait. 

"Moonlight and music and the sound of waves. 

Sea-spells incanted by a mermaid-muse. 
And women's voices breathing slumb'rous 
staves. 
These shall you have whenever you may 
choose. 
And you shall know the maidens of the moon. 

Lying on lilies shall you see them dance ; 
And you shall fling red roses to the tune. 
Great roses while the magic scene enchants. 
[135] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

Wantons and queens shall take your heart to 

play 

And lose it in a mesh of tangled hair; 

And you shall always give your heart away, 

And find a new one every hour there. 

Here are the notes of every nightingale 

Like rare pearls dropping in a golden pan; 

And you shall hear white music im each dale. 

Sweet silver sounds that are not heard by 

man. 

And I shall show you all the world's delight, 

The unknown passion of each flaming star; 

Your eyes shall be endowed with keener sight 

Beyond' the border of the things that are. 

Oh come, they wait you on the further 

strand — 

Your drab and mournful mood they will 

exchange 

For joy's resplendent purple in the land 
[136] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

Where all is rhythmical and fair and 
strange. . . 
Oh come and learn the songs unborn, unsung, 
And I shall give you all your longing craves, 
That you may live in ecstasy among 

Moonlight and music and the sound of 
waves." 

Entranced he stood — so exquisite the art 
That charmed him he could scarcely whis- 
per low: 
**And who are you that comes to stir my heart 
With fragments of the songs I used to 

know 

You speak of wild and yet familiar things. 

Exotic passions and uncanny bliss; 
A thousand dreams your voice recalls and 
brings ; 
And who are you that shows me all of 

this>" 

[1371 



THE DYING DECADENT 

"I am the soul and spirit of your songs; 

I am your ballad's grief, your lyric's fire. 
I am the light for which your yearning longs; 

Your curious rapture and your sick desire. 
I am the burden that your lays beseech; 

The one refrain that flows through all your 
themes. 
I am the eerie glamor of your speech, 

I am the mystic radiance of your dreams. 
Come then with me, where all men's dreams 
are born, 

Where winds shall hft your perfumed 
thoughts aloft; 
Where there is never night or noon or mom. 

Only a twilight, sensuous and soft. 
And you shall know the wonder of each year. 

The fiery secrets of a myriad Springs. . . 
Lying on lilies shall you see them here ; 

And you shall live and touch immortal 

things." 

1138] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

She paused and sighed. Slowly he shook his 
head 
As one who sees a guarded flame go out; 
"Never to die? Nay that alone," he said, 
*'Were worse than all this wandering in 
doubt. 
Nor would I go if Death himself should come 
To crown Life's blessing with a greater 
gift; 
In such a perfect world I would be dumb — 
What could I long for when my fancies 
drift?... 
And more than this, I do not choose to go; 

For I am sick of strange and subtle sounds. 
Of fevered phrases, tinted words that glow. 

And all the twisting art that but astounds. 
I do not long for tortured harmonies; 

No more my languid soul is racked and 

tossed 

[139] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

With yearning for strange shores and stranger 
seas — 

I seek the visions I have long since lost. 
I seek the ways of simple love and hate. 

Once more I long to join the virile race; 
For I was blind till now, and now too late 

I see the wonder of the commonplace. 

**I long to hear men's voices, coarse and wild. 

That never knew a poet's wan desire; 
I long to hear them, as a little child 

Listens to elders grouped about the fire . . . 
To hear them as they mingle grave and gay — 
The prudent planning for the week, and 
then 
Amid the tritest gossip of the day. 

Quaint, petty talk of merchandise and men. 
I crave the usual and homely themes; 

The everyday of which no mermaid 
sings. ... 

[140] 



THE DYING DECADENT 

These are the fairest fragments of my dreams; 
These are the conquering and deathless 
things." 

He ceased; a sudden radiance round him 
shone. 
And all things melted like a phantom wrack. 
And as he swept his hands and stood alone 
He heard hoarse thunders and the dusk 
grew black. 
Vast tremors shook the world from side to 
side — 
The earth and sky became a monstrous 
blot... 

And then it seems he wokey and waking, died; 
Calling on things that he had long forgot. 



[141] 



w 



FUNERAL HYMN 

HEN Life's gay courage fails at last. 
And I grow worse than old — 
Though Death puts out my fiery 
heart, 
I never shall grow cold. 

For warm is earth's green covering, 

And warmly I shall lie. 
Wrapped in the winding-sheets of air 

And the great, blue folds of sky! 



[1421 



PROTESTS 

{After a Painting h^ Hugo Ballin) 

SOMETHING impelled her from the 
hearth; 
Whispers and winds drew her along; 
But still, unconscious of the earth, 
She read her book of golden Song. 

Old legends stirred her as she read 

Of life victoriously unfurled, 
Of glories gone but never dead. 

And Beauty that redeemed the world. 

"Oh Songs," she sighed, "your world was 
fair; 

My own holds no such lovely things; 
No glov/, no magic anywhere — " 

And then, a start — a flash of wings . . . 

[143] 



PROTESTS 



And, with the rush of surging seas, 
Over her swept the world's replies: 

The lyric hills, the buoyant breeze 
And all the sudden singing skies! 



[144] 



